Qualis Artifex Pereo
James Romansky- April 2024-
Our Nero's got a noose-- one long, and thinly sharp-- it's wound about his neck, be careful when it starts. There's light on down the hall. it marks our dying days-- those not too far gone, when hope escapes to the shade. Our Nero's got a match-- he burns it day and night-- through emphysema coughs he stammers with what's right. His wrists are tied with wire, tugged by bread-basket bastards-- who sneer at tired morals and laugh at their masters. Our Nero's got the keys-- and waves at suffers by. Festivals! But not for you, the Jews, or Jesus-kind. We look left, then look right, speaking to Roman ghosts of their end, and pray their fate's now a kinder host. Our Nero strums a fiddle playing it mighty loud, Turning keys: one, two, three setting fires, and flashing proud. He lets those singing strings play for hanged and holy, for us who burn in Rome, both countrymen, and folly. Our Nero's dancing light moving feet, turning hips, along our senate steps like Elvis did abide. He'll flee in burning night and there in rightful end, Our Nero will be asked something to comprehend. Is it so dreadful a thing, oh Nero Ours, then to die?